


Five of Clint’s Relationships that Kate Didn’t Approve of  (And One That She Does)

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 22:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: The title says it all, really.





	Five of Clint’s Relationships that Kate Didn’t Approve of  (And One That She Does)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> A/N: This was written for the be_compromised Valentine’s Promptathon, for my friend inkvoices’ who wanted … well, what it says in the title. The very first of three pages of glorious prompts, and I always love me a good 5+1!
> 
> Based (very loosely) on the Fraction/Aja Hawkeye run, with echoes of Avengers Assemble vol. #5 (2012, connoisseurs will know whereof I speak) and the MCU. There be a wee bit of angst, and heaps of fluff to cover it up.
> 
> Huge thanks to my friend JRBarton for the beta! <3

 

1.

The dog is mangy, scruffy, blind in one eye, and …

“He stinks, Clint.” 

“You would too, if you’d been tossed in a dumpster. In fact …” 

Kate holds out her hand to ward him off. This is not the time for Clint to demonstrate his expertise in the Brooklyn garbage scene – it’s time to be _practical_. 

“You can’t keep a dog. You’re never here.” 

He shrugs. 

“I don’t have any avenging planned in the next little while. And if some should come up, Simone is always on about how she wants to pay rent, so she might as well earn some of it. The kids will love him.” 

He sounds stubborn and determined, in a way she hasn’t seen him lately; it’s almost a relief, actually, to see him care about something. But did he have to pick a mangy, scruffy, half-blind, smelly dog? 

The animal in question sits on the floor, tongue lolling out. He’s eying the leftover pizza on the coffee table, but doesn’t make a move for it. Instead he shakes, almost as if he’s afraid he’ll be beaten up for wanting food. 

“You hungry, buddy?” Clint has noticed, and heads over to the table. “I have just the thing for you. You’re lucky.” 

He takes the box off the table and puts it on the floor, watching with an indulgent smile as the dog, scarcely believing his luck, devours the remaining bits of pizza in three bites. Clint turns to Kate, the challenge clear in his eyes. 

“He bit someone for me today, which is more than anyone has done in quite some time. And if you think he stinks, why not help me put him in the tub?” 

As it turns out, the dog _does_ smell a lot better with half a bottle of _Head & Shoulders_ spread all over him, even if everyone and everything gets drenched in the process.   Kate’s eyes meet Clint’s over the wet, furry body as the dog laps up the water at the bottom of the tub.

“Yep,” she says. “You are one lucky dog.”

 

2.  

“Who exactly are these people that are trying to kill us, again?”

“I dunno,” Clint huffs. “Some kind of gang?” 

Talk about stating the obvious? 

He vaults over a stalled yellow cab with the grace of a large cat, despite all those bandages. Kate follows him, using the momentary cover to loosen a couple of arrows; those hideous brown velour tracksuits make for eminently satisfying targets.

 “That much I guessed, genius. But why do they keep calling you ‘bro’?” 

“Fuck do I know,” he shrugs, letting fly a triple. “Maybe we’re related? Dip a Kleenex in that guy’s blood and send it to _23 And Me_ with some of my nail clippings.” 

That last volley of arrows seems to have done the trick; the gang has abandoned the chase (for now) and retreats, shaking their fists. Clint looks around the neighbourhood they’ve landed in and sniffs. 

“Chow Mein at twelve o’clock!” he announces, nodding with approval. “I think those Bros must’ve wanted us to sample the local cuisine.”

Clint talks to the grimy cook in fluent, somewhat shouty Cantonese. Somehow that tends to produce far better stuff than what you normally get in New York, especially in dives like this, and so Kate keeps her mouth shut. But she picks up their earlier conversation with her chopsticks hovering over a particularly succulent piece of crispy duck. 

“Brown velour tracksuits, Clint? You really need to start pissing off a better class of thugs.”

 

3.

When Kate trips in the doorway to Clint’s apartment, her first response is a small jolt of adrenaline. Her right heel is tangled up in something; the thought that some of Dr. Doom’s poisonous vines sprouted in the grime on Clint’s floor is not too far-fetched. 

Her second response, though, is disgust. 

She disentangles the fuchsia-colored bra (Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy Push-up, something-something-DD) from her heels and flings it gracelessly into the staircase before slamming the door shut. Clint is not exactly hard on the eyes, but she’ll never understand why his conquests seem unable to wait to get into his bedroom before shedding their knickers. 

“Clint?” she calls out, not bothering to mask the distaste in her voice. “You alone? Please say yes.” 

A female squeal emanates from the bedroom. Kate can’t tell whether it’s a _I’m-coming_ thing or the vixen’s response to the existence of another female in her territory? Either way, that’s a ‘no’ on the alone part. 

She sighs. Lucky gives a sympathy whine from the couch. 

“We had an archery lesson, Hawkeye, remember?” 

There’s a new and muffled sound now; a sleepy male voice muttering something like “Oh, shit.” 

Probably the closest Kate will likely come to the apology she deserves.   She rolls her eyes. 

“I’m taking Lucky for a walk. _To Starbucks_ ,” she says, loud enough that it should penetrate the bedroom door and any post-coital haze. “And when I come back, you better have your life under control.”

There’s a squeak from a loose bedspring; must have had some workout, the poor thing. Time to pick another one up from the curb? A thud of feet hits the floor and a tousled blond head appears in the bedroom door. Clint looks at her with puppy dog eyes. 

“Americano? Please?”

  

4. 

“Are you sure this Barney guy is your _brother_? I’d assume that after having _him_ , your parents would have given up sex for good.” 

Kate expects an appreciative bark of laugh at the snappy one-liner; what she gets is a kick to the gut. 

“They kinda did,” Clint says. “Unless you count the times when my old man was pissed to the gills and my Mom couldn’t say no, which I guess is where I come in.” 

For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say. _Sorry_ doesn’t quite cut it, but she says it anyway. 

He waves her off. 

“’S alright. The whole Barton clan was assholes, except my Mum. She was born a Malone, so she got a pass.” 

Kate rallies and goes back to the safer subject. 

“Asshole is right. I hope he never comes back.” A sniffle from the corner of the couch is followed by a soft _woof_. “See, even Lucky agrees.” 

Clint takes out his hearing aid and for a moment Kate thinks that maybe she overplayed her hand. But he just shakes it, blows on it, and puts it back in. 

“Damn thing was giving me an echo,” he says. “I don’t think Stark tested it for resistance to dog slobber.” 

He sits up a little straighter, taps his ear and gives her a wry grin. 

“You know I probably wouldn’t have gotten that thing if Barney hadn’t made me? He does have his moments, you just have to dig through a whole lot of shit before you find a pearl.” 

Kate is not impressed. 

“Pearl or not, that does _not_ make it okay for him to walk off with your money. There must have been a hundred grand in that suitcase!” 

Clint shrugs. 

“Well, good news is, he only ever shows up when he’s broke.” 

 

5. 

Kate has tried to warm up Bobbi, she really has.  

Clint always speaks fondly of his ex. Dying and then coming back and serving him with divorce papers was kind of an awesomely shitty thing to do, but somehow he fixes on the ‘awesome’ and gives her a pass on the ‘shitty’.

And so he still lets her in and drink his coffee while she lectures him on the multi-car pile-up that is his love life; and he takes it with a passivity that the tracksuit bros could only dream of. 

“Why do you let her treat you like this?” Kate snarls after Bobbi leaves, arms akimbo and fire in her eyes. 

Clint runs a hand through his already mussed-up hair and sighs. 

“You’re just pissed because you think she’s doing your job. No worries, I’m enough of a fuck-up for all of you to have something to yell about.” 

Kate’s mouth opens and closes against her will. Her inner termagant switches off, and she goes into protective mode without noticeable transition. 

“You are _not_ a fuck up, Clint Barton, and if that’s what she told you, I swear I will kill her.” 

“Why? Because you’re the only one who’s allowed to say that, Miss You’re-So-Fucked-Up-I’ll-Take-Your-Dog-And-Go-West?”

The words come out, but there’s no real fight in them. Kate hasn’t really noticed how tired he looks, and she suspects it’s not the tracksuit gang, Barney, her nagging, or any of it. It’s like he’s hollow and needs to be filled up. 

She decides on a different tack. 

“So what _was_ she on about then? Maybe I can help?” 

Clint snorts. 

“Doubt it. She says I should stop wallowing, get off my butt and do what I have to do.” 

Not much to argue with there in principle, but right now Kate would be the last to admit that. Besides, it’s a bit non-specific, as wifely commands go. 

“Wallow in what?” she asks instead. “Misery? Self-pity? Anguish? Fear?” 

“All of the above, apparently.” 

Whoa. Okay then. _Heavy._ But judging by his expression, Clint isn’t going to be particularly forthcoming about the cause of all this misery, self-pity, anguish and fear. Time to move on. 

“So why don’t you?” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Get off your butt and ‘do what you have to do’.”

Clint gives Kate a sideways look that would be full of loathing, if he only had the energy. 

“Because she won’t be interested. End of discussion.” 

Wait, what? She. _She._ SHE???   

Suddenly, things fall into place: That _kiss_ he’d mentioned, after one too many beers, and how he’d friend-zoned the Black Widow, in a rush of panic. Could it be…? Seriously?  Time to shut up and plot. But first …

“ _Damn_ that ex-wife of yours, Clint. Did you know she used up the last of the Colombian Supreme?”

  

+1 

Valentine cards are surprisingly hard to find in May, but also cheap. And they come in boxes of twelve, which is a good thing despite the ominous implications, because it takes Kate several tries before she is satisfied that she is (a) adequately copying Clint’s chicken scratches and (b) striking the right tone. A few extra commas won’t hurt either, to show how much thought he would have put into this masterpiece had he be the one to write it. 

 _Meet me, at the Bryant Park café?_ it says. _Wednesday, at 4. Sorry this is a bit late, needed to work up the guts to ask, plus, gang trouble._  

The other card is trickier, because she’s never seen the Black Widow’s handwriting (a couple of corpses with holes in their foreheads don’t count). Kate basically bets on the fact that Clint hasn’t either, or if he has, being a guy and generally oblivious, won’t remember what it looks like. 

 _Meet me at the Bryant Park café. Wednesday at 4. Unfinished business._  

Kate nods to herself in satisfaction. Being the world’s second-greatest – no, make that _greatest_ – archer means that playing Cupid should be a breeze. 

At 3:45, she takes up position on a strategically located bench, her face hidden under a floppy hat. A pair of binoculars from a pawn shop completes the look. 

Clint shows up first, dogless and obviously nervous, keeping both hands in his back pocket as he negotiates a table with the waiter. Natasha Romanoff arrives couple of minutes later, looking like a million bitcoins. She hesitates a split second before entering the café area though, which Kate takes as a promising sign. 

There’s a surprisingly timid hello, followed by an animated discussion as - that did not take long, oops - they figure out that neither of them actually wrote one of those cards. Both of them scan the perimeter with suddenly hardened, professional-killer eyes. _Shit._ Just how do people get that paranoid and still remain mostly functional? 

For a moment, Kate just stares. 

Of course, that’s the moment her targets focus on her, hat and all. Both look straight at her binoculars, then at each other, and hold up a middle finger in unison. 

Made. _Shitshitshit._  

But they’re actually smiling – Clint in an oddly shy way she’s never seen on him before - and turn towards each other again almost right away. Clint reaches for Natasha’s hand, slowly, tentatively, and she doesn’t pull back. 

Kate carefully folds up the binoculars, sticks them in her purse and heads out of the park. Time to get back to Brooklyn and take Lucky for a walk.

 

 


End file.
